Midnight
by TerraZeal
Summary: Cyric gains freedom, while still loving the goddess he killed.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:** A short story of Mystra's death from the eyes of the one who loved her more than anything else. Drabble. Also, if you think some of this doesn't make sense, its not supposed to. It isn't humor, but the person thinking it isn't in the right state of mind after Mystra's death._

_Midnight_

Her eyes had been like blue-white circles of unfathomable beauty, her raven-black hair sleek and soft, supple as her smooth, curvaceous frame. The shock and horror in those dead blue-white eyes haunted him to this day. Would haunt him to the end of his days. Even more haunting would be the ripple felt throughout his body, throughout the body of all who loved her, when those blue-white orbs closed forever and her head slumped to the floor. Azuth's staff had cracked her skull, had left glowing blood pouring from her fatal head wound. The wound was still not enough to sully her beauty. In fact, to him, in a crazy way, her death post after her murder almost made her more beautiful. The sparkling god-blood flowing down her midnight hair gave her a beauty that would never be matched in all the heavens. A beauty even Sune would envy. After her murder, Midnight was more beautiful than she had been in life. Thinking such things, about her death, her murder, made him almost sob with rage, rage that this had to happen. Still, he would have a sort of revenge. The dark dancer sought control of her magic, of her beloved Weave. He had seen to it that she would never sully Midnight's magic. As the dark goddess, Shar, had sought to take control of her own Shadow Weave and his beloved's true Weave, he had shot a bolt of power at her. Not enough to harm her, but enough to make her lose control. Enough to make it so no one would ever control the Weave again. He was a powerful god, only Shar was more powerful, and she was currently preoccupied with attempting to take control of the Weaves.

Now was the time to strike. If Midnight was not to have the Weave, no one would, especially not the shadow goddess, her antithesis. He had loved the Goddess of Magic. Loved Mystra, Midnight, Ariel Manx. Everything she was, everything she would ever have been. Even though they had never been lovers, nor even on friendly terms, he had still loved. Loved, and now lost. Lost forever. There would be no restoration from Ao for her. Whenever a previous Goddess of Magic had died, Ao had never resurrected her. He had merely put another in her place. That was not to be. No one would take her place. No one would be Midnight, the Goddess of Magic. His love. He had loved her since that day they had met in Shadowdale, while they were all mortal. Her death had killed a part of him as well. A part of him would never truly heal with her death. Midnight...yes, midnight...it described what he felt now. What he felt was only darkness. Only darkness lay before him.

His hands scrabbled at the cold, hard rock that lay on the floor of his homeplane. Or prison. He wasn't sure what it was. He didn't care. All he cared about was that she was dead. Midnight was dead. Long nails drew furrows in the rocks, drawing godly blood from the hands that scraped against them. White, sparkling blood leaked from the ends of his fingers onto the rocks. He felt no pain. He felt nothing. He had felt nothing since she had died. It was as if her death had taken everything out of him. Wind howled around him, whispering words of sorrow, of regret, of death. The winds never had anything good to say. They always told him things he didn't want to hear, things he didn't mean to do, but had done anyway...he hated them. This place of chaos, chaotic wind that told him horrible things...he wanted to get out. He had tried. Tried many times, but for some reason, he could not leave this place. Oh well. This place was as good as any to mourn her.

The darkness, the cold, sharp spikes piercing the shackles that embraced his wrists and ankles for some reason made him feel trapped. He felt like a prisoner. The shackles were there for a reason. What had he done to be so imprisoned? He had only loved Midnight. Loved her in the only way he knew how. A dog howled and paced nearby, a shadow mastiff. One he knew was called Kezef. The Chaos Hound. Why was he here? In this cold, dark place of howling winds and mourning gods? Kezef seemed to notice the god's attention for the first time. The dog simply gave a dog-shrug and continued his howling and pacing. The spiked collar and leash also marked the dog as a prisoner. Why? Why were they prisoners. Kezef, he knew, was evil. He devoured the worshippers of gods. Kezef deserved to be here. He would have eventually killed her if hadn't been imprisoned. He would have devoured all of her worshippers. Midnight would have died at the paws of a dog. Death. He had been master of Death once. Until it had been taken from him, as she had been, by Kelemvor. That wicked, evil monster that had taken all he cared about, all he loved. A growl escaped the imprisoned god.

A small bit of sanity crept its way into the god's mind at the thought of Kelemvor and his former mantle of Death God. Ariel was dead...dead because of him. He had killed her. He had killed the woman he loved. His mind spun in so many different directions that he knew not which one had led him to slay her. The dark dancer had not convinced, no some part of him always wanted her dead. The same part that loved her. He had wanted her dead because she did not love him. He had loved her, always loved her. Loved her as Mystra, Midnight, Ariel Manx. He would have loved her if she had been a mere mortal. She had to die by his hand because of that love. He would never be free if he continued to love her. Part of him would always hold back. And yet now, he was more a prisoner than when she had been alive. It was alright. He would find a way out. When he did, Toril would cry for mercy. Whatever was left of Ariel Manx would cry for him, would regret not loving him. He stood. There were no chains. Only shackles on his wrists and ankles. They were, of course, divine shackles. No chains were needed to keep him here. In this prison. He knew now what he was imprisoned for. He would find a way out. No prison could keep a god forever. Toril would weep when he escaped. The dark goddess would cry for mercy. He would visit upon her tortures she had never known. With her silvery sister more powerful now, she had a war to fight. She would be preoccupied. Thats when he would strike. They would beg for mercy. All of them.

And yet, he still loved her. He would always love Midnight. Until the day he died, however long that was.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note:** I thought I would leave this as a one-shot, but it begs for a sequel and I love writing Cyric. Unrequited Cyric/Midnight, of course._

_Ch 2._

Cyric paced the cold room as far as his shackles would allow him. He had been speaking with Kezef of late. Once he had come out of his madness, the madness that the death of the goddess of magic had caused, he had sought council with one who had been imprisoned before. One who the gods had wanted so dearly to imprison that they did not think the sacrifice of Tyr's hand unworth it. He was still able to spin lies and illusions just as easily as before. The shackles didn't prevent his use of magic. That was odd. He could still use magic, even though the goddess of magic was dead. Kezef explained it to him. The shadow mastiff had been roaming the prison and attempting to view and learn what was going on in the outside world, outside of their prison. That was how the dog had learned that magic had been split. Its dominion now passed to those who had previously called dominion over it, but had no real dominion over it, all magic, even that of gods, belonging to his beloved Midnight. A spasm of pain, real or imagined, he did not know, shot through him at the thought of her death. A death he had brought about with his own hands, using her underling's own staff...her only weakness. A weapon forged of pure weave energy...the only thing capable of killing the Weave's mistress. He had ripped it from Azuth's hand and brought it down on her beautiful head...Cyric shook his head. Thoughts such as those would only lead him down the road to further madness, and he and Kezef could not escape their prison if he were locked in the throes of madness, as he had been for months after her death.

The Prince of Lies took a deep breath. If dominion over magic had indeed passed to those who were claiming to be its gods before, then he truly WAS god of illusion magic. Perhaps this could be used to his advantage. Cyric examined the god-forged shackles encircling his wrists and ankles for the first time. Tyr, the warrior god, along with his posse of good-will junkies had imprisoned him here. Gond, god of crafters, had forged the shackles. From Kezef's telling, Tyr had killed Helm, the guardian god of the Celestial stairway leading between all realms, in a battle over Tymora's, goddess of good luck, hand. Then Tyr, the half-wit, had killed himself in remorse. Cyric's lip curled in a smirk. If he had killed that poor excuse for a guardian, he would have cheered. Long had he ached to slay the guardian of the stairway. He was pissed that Tyr had stolen that from him. He couldn't even take his anger out on him once he was out of prison. What an ignorant dolt that Tyr was. And then Ao or whoever was in charge up there now had decided to make Torm chief of the gods and the new god of justice.

Slamming his fist against the wall in anger, Cyric couldn't believe it. HE they had imprisoned for slaying another god, even though he was god of murder and lies and trickery and was only doing what he was supposed to do. When Tyr slays a god, Ao does nothing. Simply allows him to get on with killing himself and allows a new god of justice to be named. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. Ao had told Cyric, had told them all, that the slaying of another god was practically Cyric's DUTY. If anyone understood duty, it was Tyr and Torm, those good-willed gods who sought to save the realms from themselves.

Kezef looked his direction, a questioning gaze in his dark dog eyes. "Do not worry yourself over it, Kezef, as if you were anyway. I am merely thinking of the injustice these so-called gods have done us."

The chaos hound growled in agreement. "You were right you know. When we first met. They are pretender gods, to have imprisoned one so powerful as myself and you, my Lord of Lies. They think these shackles can hold us forever. They are fools. You are the master of illusion, god of trickery, liesmith of the gods. If any can free me, it is you, as you freed me the first time. I will once again be in your debt and service should you free us."

Cyric smirked at Kezef. "Your loyalty surprises me, dog. Of course, in a way, I am your master. I am the only one who appreciates chaos as much as you do." The Liesmith cross the room and patted Kezef's maggoty excuse for fur, much decimated since his last time of freedom. Cyric would remedy that, and soon enough. He knelt to the floor and examined the giant hound's shackles. At first he had been caged by Mask, merely an aspect of the hated shadow goddess, Shar. Then his prison had been made more powerful by the other good gods. The shackles were like his own, only more powerful. Kezef was, in a way, a more powerful being than most gods. The first time Cyric had seen him, he had been in fetters placed there long ago when he had shorn Tyr's hand from his arm. Cyric had sliced through those fetters quite easily. Though at the time his sword had been an aspect of Shar, technically another greater god. The gears in Cyric's warped mind were turning. It taken a god's weapon to break god-forged fetters. Perhaps a god-weapon could break these shackles.

He stood up and went back to the corner he had taken to possessing when not pacing and thinking of ways to get out. True master of illusion now...perhaps he could take illusion to its next step. Illusion magic, currently, merely was the concealing of a truth. A lie. A trick. What Cyric was best at. If anyone could take illusion to its next step, it was him, god of deception. True shapeshifting. Or changing the shape of another item in truth. A large rock, one among many, lay nearby. Cyric picked it up. He chanted the words to a powerful illusion spell. The rock appeared before him as a sword. The Liesmith reached toward it, focusing his gaze intently on it. His hand slapped the hard ground beneath the rock as it passed through what the illusion showed as the sword's pommel. Cyric snarled in fury. The illusion spell worked well enough, but he had intended to TRULY make the rock into a sword.

Kezef turned his gaze on his master once again. "My lord, perhaps you shouldn't be so angry on the first attempt. I know what you're trying to do, and I agree that it is the plan most probable to work and get us out of here, but you cannot think or act as well when you are so full of rage. Calm yourself. It was only a first attempt. Shapechanging magic is powerful. You ARE the true god of illusions now, so I do not put such a feat past you, but even gods make mistakes. Our being imprisoned here is one of them." The chaos hound smiled a maggoty smile. The dog truly wished to see Cyric, his now-master, succeed. He wanted out as much as the Prince of Lies did. He thought it far better to ally himself with this incredibly powerful god than to make an enemy of him. While Cyric was indeed mentally unstable, the chaos hound liked it. A god with a love of chaos as great as his own. Kezef smiled again. This would turn out well. An alliance between them. Kezef's loyalty to Cyric had honestly been sealed when he had been taken from a cold prison by the god of lies to an existence of feasting on the god's followers, as he had been. And Cyric cared naught if he feasted on his own followers. People flocked to worship Cyric like moths to a flame, especially after the Cataclysm that Mystra's death had brought about.

Kezef knew that people were only directing their worship to the Prince of Lies in an attempt to avoid more chaos, since Cyric was god of chaos and strife as well as lies and illusion. Regardless of WHY people worshipped him, Cyric was now arguably the most powerful god in the pantheon. Of course, it only made sense. Those others were as his master claimed. No true gods at all. Only Cyric was a god. His god. His master. He would serve his master by slaying those who called themselves his enemies. Feasting on the flesh of their worshippers and then their dying flesh when they had no worshippers. He would leave the shadow goddess to Cyric. The Liesmith so desperately yearned to slay her. She had lead to the death of his beloved Midnight. Kezef did not read minds or deduce this on his own, but he was smart enough to listen to Cyric's nightly ranting and raving and crying over her and how Shar had caused her death. The mentally unstable god sometimes even thought someone else had dealt the killing blow, though when he calmed down he was able to see that it was he himself who did it.

A cry of triumph brought Kezef back to the present. The dog looked across the room to see Cyric holding a black, shining sword in his hands. Kezef grinned. He had truly mastered his role as god of illusion. He had created a god-weapon out of a rock. Truly, Kezef had been lucky in finding so powerful a master as the Prince of Lies.

_R/R. Will continue shortly, most likely. I'm on a Cyric kick again. I want to see him get out of his prison. This doesn't ENTIRELY align with the Forgotten Realms new version, but its the way I think it should be._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note:** Short little chapter with Cyric and Kezef conversing while he frees them._

_Ch 3._

Cyric held the jet black sword he had created in his hands. It was pulsing with power. He had heard Kezef's yelp of triumph when Cyric himself had cried out in happiness once his spell had truly done what it was meant to. The dog was obviously just as happy. The Prince of Lies wasn't sure whether to release the dog as soon as he was done sawing through his own shackles. Kezef had made it quite clear that he was on Cyric's side, but that only gave the Liesmith some cause for suspicion. Of course, dog's were known for being loyal. Perhaps he would have to take the Chaos Hound at his word. Until he was clear of the prison, his former home in the frozen wasteland of Pandemonium, his powers were still dampened, despite his mastery of illusion magic now. He wouldn't get the full powers his worshippers provided until he was in the realm of Toril. Cyric wondered whether he would be able to manifest as himself or would have to find a worshipper to take as a vessel. The Black Sun shrugged absently and took to hacking at the shackle on his left wrist. One hand at a time. Being ambidextrous was useful at a time like this. Of course, he was a god, so he could use his feet to hack at something if it were required.

Kezef watched his master hack away at the shackles, eventually freeing his left hand, flexing it and watching the wounds from the god-forged spikes heal. Glittery blood dripped from the wound. Kezef found himself drooling. Cyric raised an eyebrow at him after noticing this. "Well? You can come over here and lick it up if you want. I will be doing more bleeding as I get closer to freeing myself completely. You'll need your strength as well, so might as well lick up the blood." With his master's consent, Kezef padded over, close to Cyric without getting in range of the sword, which was now hacking at his right wrist. The dog lapped up the shimmering blood, feeling a surge of power as the blood of the pantheon once more ran through his body, it wasn't the same as feeding on the flesh of gods, as he remembered when he had eaten Tyr's hand. It was the Justice God's hand that had kept him so powerful and vital, even while pinned in Gond's fetters. Cyric's blood was ripe and sweet. Something he hadn't expected the Prince of Lies' blood to taste like. He had expected it to be cold and bitter, like the Murder God's black heart, which, if Kezef's hearing was correct, no longer even beat within his chest.

According to Cyric's nightly ranting, his heart was still in some mortal-turned-demigod named Malik. Cyric no longer cared about his heart. His ravings claimed that his heart had died when Midnight did. Bah. Human sympathy. Kezef continued to lap up the leaking blood that came from Cyric's now-freed right wrist. It had been much harder for him to free this hand, and he had cut himself several times, much to Kezef's delight.

Cyric almost glared at the dog lapping up his blood. The dog's barely concealed delight at his injuries unnerved him. Still, he had freed both his hands. That made freeing his ankles far easier. He only cut himself three times in the process, Kezef had almost seemed disappointed at this. Standing as a free god for the first time in what he guessed from Kezef's talk had been years, he turned the sword on the dog, still licking the floor where his blood had been. "Do you want to be freed, dog? If you do, you swear loyalty to me. I am more powerful than you, smarter than you, stronger than you...if you cross me, you'll have the same fate as Ao's Golden Girl, the Whore Lady Midnight." He sneered her name, but still felt a spasm of pain at the thought of how his hand had dealt the killing blow. All other forms of killing her had failed, even stabbing her with her anti-thesis, Shar as Godsbane, had failed to deal a killing blow. Only a staff made from pure Weavestuff had been able to close her brilliant blue-white orbs forever. He remembered Shar's shadowy gesture that it was time, and plucking the staff from Azuth, who had lain the staff down in a moment of carelessness. Cyric had replaced it with a clone of his staff so no suspicion would be raised.

Once Azuth had learned of his role in Midnight's death, he had killed himself. The other gods merely though Azuth had been destroyed by the resulting blast from Midnight's death. The wizard god couldn't bear the thought that his own staff had brought about the death of his beloved mistress and allowed himself to be killed in the blast from her death. He could easily have escaped with a minor teleportation spell that wasn't beyond even the lowest of mortal mages. Cyric sighed audibly, drawing a look from Kezef, who still hadn't answered his question, being too immersed in licking the floor.

"Pardon me, master. Of course I swear loyalty to you. But the terms are the same as they are the first time you freed me. Once you control all of Toril, even the souls of your faithful will be mine to consume as I wish." Kezef wanted to be free, but he wanted to make sure the Prince of Lies knew what Kezef was going to do once his master took over the Realms.

Cyric sneered, lip curling in disdain. "Of course. You think I care? Once all of Toril bows their knee to me, there are other realms to conquer. What do you think that fool Helm guarded the Celestial Stairway for? To keep us from exerting our influence in other realms without his knowledge, Ao's knowledge. We both know Helm reported to Ao and Ao alone." Cyric spat on the floor. "What a poor guard he turned out to be. He didn't see Tyr's sword coming for him when he claims to be able to see all as the Guardian God. It matters not. He is dead now, and no one will be able to keep us from the realms beyond Toril, the Kingdom of the Dead, Pandemonium, and others. In fact, I think the Kingdom of the Dead will be our first stop. I have a throne to reclaim, and you have a sister to free."

He disliked the particularly creepy Dendar, the giant serpent that encompassed the entire Realm of the Dead and feasted on their nightmares, and his own...but with Kezef at his side, perhaps he could convince the serpentess to work for him and him alone. With her at his side, he could take control of the Realm of the Dead using the nightmares Dendar controlled. If she relinquished the nightmares, the Realm of the Dead would be in chaos. Chaos Kelemvor, the stupid brute, would be baffled to stop. Not that being baffled was new to the ignorant brute that had stolen his Midnight from him. He would pay for that act of treachery. She desired brawn over brains, and so Cyric had not been her ideal man. He was far from the perpetually strong-of-arm Kelemvor, preferring instead to rely on his wits and cunning. It had bought him godhood and Kelemvor a prison inside Shar's twisted mind. Until Cyric, in his anger, had snapped Kelemvor's prison, and broken a bit of Shar's mind and power, taking the portfolio of Deception from her in the process. She was using her guise of Mask at the time, but it mattered not. It gave him no small amount of pleasure now, to know he had stolen a great deal of power from the dark goddess.

"Master? Do you intend to muse on the past for several MORE years or are you going to free me so we can have our vengeance?" Kezef's irritable tone brought Cyric back from his thoughtful musings of vengeance and death. He turned the sword to Kezef's shackles, not really caring that he hacked away a few bits of maggoty fur in the process. Once the Chaos Hound was free, he shook himself and howled a joyful howl of freedom. Cyric turned and faced their prison. Pandemonium. His home. The chaos of the place had endeared him to it even while he ruled the Realm of the Dead. This would still be his home, but it would require modifications. He turned to what was once his throne, now whittled down to an almost unrecognizable hunk of rock by the swirling winds, and flung a bolt of power at it. The throne twisted itself into a spiky, wicked chair, suited to the god of chaos and his pets. He grinned wickedly. Still, he wasn't finished. If that goody-goody Torm had the sense to look down here, they would know he escaped his prison. He couldn't allow himself nor Kezef to be imprisoned again. He closed his eyes and drew on the thread of magic that was his own, illusion, and created clones of himself and Kezef. The clones took very little power to create and did what he had intended them to do. His own clone paced and ranted about destroying things while the Kezef clone howled and scrabbled at the walls.

"Nice work, master. That fool Torm will never know the difference. Even when you sit on your throne before your minions, Torm will only see what you have created here. Master of Illusion indeed. Come, then, master, if you intend to storm the Realm of the Dead. I can hear my sister's torment. Kelemvor does not feed her as you did. She will be glad to have you ruling again." The shadow mastiff grinned. "She thought YOUR nightmares particularly delicious."

The Liesmith turned and glared at Kezef. "She will have no part of me or I will not free her and you will go back into shackles. I am the most powerful dark god now, do you honestly think you could oppose me? Shar easily trapped you with blood magic. I can do the same. I have no qualms about sacrificing some random human for the spell." Kezef flinched inwardly for mentioning his sister's taste for Cyric's nightmares.

"Forgive me, master. I will tell her the terms of her freedom from Kelemvor. She will not feast on your nightmares, if one such as you still has them." Kezef bowed his head in obeisance. Cyric turned from the dog, fury subsiding. Perhaps it would do to let the serpent have his nightmares. They were all about HER, the beautiful goddess, anyway.

Midnight.


End file.
